“Aarrrggghh… Papa!!.. Papa…!!” I shouted from the back of the house. My voice drowned by the volume of the TV at the front showing some classical Chinese show.
“What is it?” asked Papa while walking slowly towards me, clearly annoyed with the unwelcomed interruption.
“Papa, you’ve ruined my new pants with the amount of bleach you poured in. Look at the white mark on this particular spot.” I pointed accusingly to my freshly washed pants.
“Aiyah, no problem what! Who would notice that small spot when viewed from afar?” Papa countered my argument with his nonchalant air, slowly hobbling towards the kitchen.
I gave a deep sigh and resigned to the fact that all Papa wanted to do was to help clean my pants.
I looked around the old house I grew up in. It looks old but neat and tidy. The air of familial comfort seeps from every nook and cranny. I swear I can walk around the house blindfolded, knowing every details; chipped stones, paint on the wall, missing tiles, squeaking floorboards and such with unbiased clarity.
I took a deep breath and looked at my Papa. The old man is still strong despite his advanced age. I smiled and I went to hug him from behind and playfully tapped his seemingly bloated tummy. We both laughed and I cheerfully took his mug from him.
“I bought your favourite ice kacang lah Papa. It’s in the fridge. Let me pour it for you.” I smiled as I walked towards the fridge.
“Are you sure I can finish it all alone? Ask Mama to join us lah. Then when we drink each other’s saliva, we will have similar facial features.” said Papa while smiling broadly.
I jerked up all the sudden from the midday reverie. Comfort of the old house faded and replaced by a whitewashed room. Blades of the fan spin slowly on its axis, dispensing warm breeze on a hot and humid night.
Faintly but surely, I hear the soft breathing, laborious with every breath. My heart felt the pain.
My hand caressed the shoulder; the strong shoulder that used to carry me high up, so that I can reach and pluck the low hanging mangoes. The skin now dry and tout, worn with age and disease.
My own eyes moisten as I see him struggle to form his sentences, asking me about my work and to take good care of myself.
I crave to listen to his deep voice dispensing words of care and wisdom, or of him scolding me when I misbehave.
I held his hands close to my heart and tap his tummy, all I can feel is his protruding ribcage and hardened liver. His body a shell now, devoid of strong muscles and fats that I used to hug and play with.
I moved my palms, one to his heart, another caressing his sparse grey hair, then gently cupping his face, feeling the bone under his skin, far cry from his usual form.
Telling him not to worry about anything, to rest and relax. Constantly reminding him to take his meal no matter how little the portion is. How helpless I felt when he turned to me with a small smile on his face and those gentle eyes looking straight at me as I offer words of comfort.
Then and only then, as I opened my mouth to utter that I love him so very much, barely a whisper, I felt as if I have pits lodged in my throat, as if I have exhaled my last breath and my lungs are devoid of air. The pain and emotion contained within the void of my chest, in each alveolus of my lungs.
The word love seems odd in thoughts but when I uttered it to him, it came out naturally. I braved myself and told him that I love him, louder this time. Unsure if he heard me the first time.
He kept quiet, closed his eyes, and I saw tears trickle down the corner of his eyes.
My eyes began to water, blurring my view. I don't care anymore. I grasped his hand in mine as I told him again and again that I have always loved him. That it's the foolish sense of male ego that prevented me from saying it to him before all these.
I wished all the wishes that made my heart ache. Most of the wishes are impossible now but I can’t bear to part with Papa, not just yet.
He kept his silence. And then, he gave me that slight nod, acknowledging my tirade of emotional outburst, slowly tapping the back of my head. I needed that. I crave for that.
Papa, I love you...
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| Source: ImageShack.us |
